


Addiction Never Leaves, Only Waits Until You're Low Again

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Hurt!Sam, protective!Dean, s7 au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>7x17, The Born-again Identity: Sam is shown taking an unknown substance from a suspicious drug dealer in his desperation to sleep and get rid of Lucifer. AU where he doesn't get hit by the car, and keeps going back for more. He breaks himself down and Dean vows to tape together the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addiction Never Leaves, Only Waits Until You're Low Again

Sam slept for three hours.

Three  _whole_  hours.

Well, mostly— he was briefly awoken sometime during that by Lucifer, who had decided to shine what appeared to be the sun itself in his eyes. Unlike every other time, though, it didn’t bother Sam, and he was able to drift back into a dreamless sleep with ease almost immediately afterward.

After being awake for five days straight, three hours was a blessing from above. Three hours refreshed him, and when he woke up he felt  _reborn._  He sat up, stretched languidly, and smiled absentmindedly, savoring in a quiet that he remembered taking for granted before he fell. The stillness and mundane mediocrity of the motel room comforted him. It was then noticed with a jolt that Dean was watching him intently, an angry frown frozen into place as Dean judged him. 

Sam looked down, conscious, and noticed his arms were shaking slightly and he was covered in a thin layer of sweat. He casually turned his arms over, to hide the red dots and bruises of where the needles had gone into the crook of his arm, and clenched his hands into a fist to stop the quakes.

Dean’s eyes had bags under them, like Sam’s had previously, and he was fully-clothed, sitting on his own bed above the comforter. Sam’s smile wavered, but he plastered it in place, aware that it probably looked forced now. “Did you get any sleep?”

"No." Dean answered him bluntly. "I was up all night watching over you. You came in late and went to sleep, which was unusual because of your recent… habits. So I was just making sure you were okay… and then you went so still, Sammy. You were so  _pale._  I tried shaking you awake, but it didn’t work, and you are  _not_  a heavy sleeper. I thought you were dead. I thought you had… anyway, I shined a light in your eyes-” Dean paused, Sam winced- “and you seemed to stir for a bit before going right back to sleep. So I’m only going to ask you once what’s going on, because you’re hiding something.” The last sentence was spat out in a tone that brooked no argument, and Sam was reminded of moments like these with his dad, hand-written (and fastidiously hidden) college essays shaken in front of him like a crux.

Sam shrugged helplessly. “What do you want me to say?”

Dean scoffed and smiled acidly before he could catch himself, turning away and getting up. He made a beeline for the minifridge, taking out a beer and opening it against the edge of the table. He almost chugged it completely, gasping for air as he set it down with a  _thunk._  He pulled the chair out and sat down heavily.

Dean’s silence felt like a sentence, and Sam couldn’t bear the thought of getting locked away by his brother again, metaphorically or otherwise. Sam’s mouth felt unbearably dry, as if he had stuffed it full of cotton balls. He eyed the fridge, stationed conveniently behind Dean.

"Okay, alright! I’ll tell you," Sam acquiesced, holding his hands palms-out in a placating gesture. Dean tilted his chin up, waiting, his expression still cold. Sam had to resist the urge to look behind himself and make sure his needles were hidden away.

"And I’m sorry. Look, I’ve been getting extra-strength sleeping pills from this guy… he sets the time and the place. But they’re just sleeping pills, I swear! I’ll only take them until Lucifer finds a way around them." Seeing Dean’s expression had not changed, he added, "Without them, I’d be dead. Either from sleep deprivation or I would’ve been so dead on my feet I would’ve been hit by a car or something. It’s not permanent," he reiterated. 

Dean blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head. He looked at Sam with slightly watery eyes. “I hate this. As long as it’s not permanent, okay? And just… please, don’t overdose.” His voice cracked, and he looked as if he had just lost some long-fought battle, as if his country had been taken out from under him. Sam didn’t think it was that big of a deal, this thing was his _lifesaver_ , but a surge of guilt flooded through the muddle of his mind anyway.  
  
"I promise," Sam vowed, speaking past the thickness in his throat.

Dean nodded. He took another swig of his beer, looked up, aiming to say something, and thought better of it. He nodded again.

Dean opened up the laptop lid and Sam perceived it was finally safe enough to make for the fridge. He slid past Dean and pulled out a beer of his own, heading back to the bed.  He drank deeply, turned on the TV, and let the mindless daytime shows wash over him. 

Lucifer bent over him, and poked him in the shoulder with a blackened claw. He pressed the tip of it into Sam’s skin and dragged his finger down, a red line appearing as blood welled to the surface. He giggled. “Aw, Sammy, did you think it would be that easy?” he asked cheerfully. 

Sam decided he needed to get out, and he needed to get out  _now_. Uttering some half-assed excuse that he could barely recall even three seconds later, Sam went out the door.

Lucky for him, their motel was in the center of the city- more of a small town- one that was desperate to overuse the former phrase ad nauseam because they had a Main Street. It was only a five minute walk to his favorite inconspicuous back alley. He cast a backward glance before sliding into it, leaning back against the cool bricks. Lucifer was pulling the tendons out of his arm one at a time like spaghetti, and Sam had to bite his lip to keep from crying out, a drop of blood appearing where his teeth had pierced the skin. 

His arm was shaking worse now, so when he pulled the needle out of his jacket, he missed the vein. There was a dull throb in his arm as he wound a rubber band around his upper arm. On the second try he hit a vein, and the pain was instantly forgotten as a warm glow spread through him like mollasses or honey or syrup something equally saccharine. Nectar of the gods, he mused.

He was dimly aware of the walls scraping against his shirt as he slid bonelessly to the ground. He sat in something wet, uncaring, savoring in the slow spread of numbness and safety as the drugs took effect. He tiled his head back, mouth open, and closed his eyes.

A repetitive, insistent ringing brought him back from somewhere. Moaning, with tv-static fingers he fumbled for his phone, only dragging it out of his pocket after numerous unsuccessful attempts. He had to swipe at the screen six times before he finally answered the call, and put on his best totally-sober, totally-aware voice. “Uh, hello?”

"Sam? Where the hell are you?" Dean barked out, and Sam had to hold the phone away from his ear, blinking.

Sam checked the time, ran a hand through his hair. “Augh, I’m sorry,” he apologized, loading up his tone with as much little-brotherly embarrassment as he thought possible. “I was the only one in the parking lot of the grocery store besides this old lady, and when she asked if I could help her with her bags I couldn’t just-“

"Fucking idiot," Dean murmured, cutting him off, but Sam could hear the affectionate smile in his words. Sam relaxed, exhaling slowly.

"Well, get your ass back home," Dean continued. "I found a case."

_Fuck._

—

It was a werewolf hunt, textbook and easy as pie. Not only that, but the case was nearby, in the same county. They even found the wolf before 5 P.M. They had to wait until midnight, of course, to make sure, and the whole time Dean was beaming brightly, recalling the “old days” or something, repeating over and over what luck they had, eh, Sammy?

But for Sam, those few hours felt like years, a feeling he was accustomed to. They were (almost literally) hell. He hoped the darkness covered up how completely drenched in sweat he was. His body had taken to random bouts of severe shuddering, that he covered up by moving about and reloading his gun. A dull headache had made itself comfortable at the front of his forehead, making concentrating on something even as trivial as this hunt almost impossible.

And he couldn’t fucking breathe.

Lucifer was gone, but there was still an anvil on his chest, a constant pressure that made his hands seem to buzz and phase out of existence. He dropped his gun once, but didn’t make the mistake again.

Dean didn’t seem to notice any of this— the hunt had enraptured him. He had said there was something purifying about it. He hadn’t flinched when he’d shot the kid— only twenty or so, and therefore sloppy, which led to the Winchesters on his trail in no time at all. 

As they carried the body through the house ( _fuck_  second floors, seriously), Sam had randomly become dizzy, to the point that it felt like the world had dropped out from beneath him. He had let go of the kid, weak, and the werewolf’s head had hit the stairs loudly. Dean had asked- almost yelled- what was wrong with him, and he played it off as being tired again. Taking compassion, Dead hadn’t asked anymore questions, and Sam wrote off the increasing guilt toiling about in his insides as another side effect of his little cure.

The drive, the burning of the body, and the trip back home had passed without incident, save for the fact that Sam’s thoughts were screaming  _i need it i need it i need it I NEED IT_ and his body was sickly and ragdoll-limp.

When he and Dean had stepped out of the car, he knew he could not wait a second longer. “Hey, Dean?” he asked lightly, legs like jello beneath him, dumping their bags into the trunk and slamming it shut, “Can you do me a small favor?”

"Hmm?" Dean made a noise from his position on the lone step up to the door, staring down at him inquiringly.

Sam tried his damndest to blush, which was almost a herculean effort when his skin was marble-white. “When we were burning the wolf… I think I set down my jacket. I’m just so damn tired, I’m going to try to sleep. Do you think you could go…?”

Dean stared at him with an unreadable expression for only a moment before rolling his eyes. “You gettin’ Alzheimer’s already?” he asked, but he got in the car and lit up the motel door with headlights. Sam nodded his thanks and had to stop himself from sprinting inside.

Leaning against the shut door, Sam didn’t bother to check if Dean had left yet. He dragged a box out from the closet, grabbed a needle and fell against the edge of his bed, hands jerking so violently that the needle flew out of his hands. He had to breathe out his mouth, gasping and wheezing like a marathon runner. His entire body shook with each breath, and a tear squeezed out of his eye; not of his own volition.

He jammed the needle in his arm and missed. His hand clenched shut from the pain. He tried again. Again.

"Damn it!" he cried out, eyes welling up. He slid the needle in, successfully this time, surrounded by black and yellow skin. He pressed down on the plunger, practically hiccuping instead of breathing. The warmth didn’t feel like enough, didn’t have the full effect. Frowning, his hands danced erratically as he pulled out another needle. His hair was plastered to his face, obscuring his vision, but he didn’t care.

The door opened.

His entire body jerked as he looked up, dropping his needle, mouth open as he looked at Dean.

"H-how…. how did y-y-you….?" his voice stuttered and shook.

"Kiddo, you’ve been sicker than death for the past week," Dean said quietly. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look disappointed, or confused, or wanting to leave or drink or punch or shoot something.

He just looked so sad.

"Also, you’re wearing your jacket," he added, and Sam knew at once his brother wasn’t calm. The last word had to be ground out, Dean’s voice losing volume as he spoke. Through the blur of his own eyes, he saw that Dean’s eyes were red-rimmed.

Dean kneeled down in front of Sam and gently pried the needles from his hands. He was _crying._ Dean was crying, because of him. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sammy,” Dean croaked, swiping at his eyes. After taking the needles from his hands, Dean’s hands had returned to Sam’s and held them between them.

Sam’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Biting his lip and containing a sob, he tried to still them, but they just  _wouldn’t._ He looked up at Dean desperately, like a little kid seeking answers. He shook his head. “I can’t…. they won’t…”

"Shh. It’s okay," Dean cooed, holding his hands tighter. "Just look at me. Don’t think about it."

 _"Dean,"_  Sam cried out, heart hurting and head hurting and more hurt besides, “Dean, Dee, I’m so sorry,” he was sobbing in earnest now, and he hiccuped. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to sleep, I just wanted him  _away._..” His words were scratchy and there was a lump in his throat that made him want to throw up.

"I know," Dean consoled him, doing his best to be strong enough for the both of them, "I understand. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you. We’re going to get you help. I mean it. After this, you’ll be all right. Just focus on breathing… come on, Sammy."

Dean’s hands went to his hair, and then his back, and then he was hugging Sam, pressing him tight against his body as if the closeness would get rid of all their problems. Sam’s hands went around his neck and he buried his head in the crook of Dean’s neck. 

"I’ll stop," Sam whispered when the shaking was tolerable.

Dean didn’t release him. “I know,” he said. “I’ll help.”


End file.
